The Riddle She Loved
by fromafizate
Summary: Tom Riddle in Hogwarts. It’s good, don’t worry. Please read!
1. Chapter 1

TITLE: The Riddle She Loved

AUTHOR: Odium of my Requiem

SUMMARY: Just a short review of Tom Riddle while he was in school in the eyes of a girl. It's good, don't worry.

DISCLAIMER: Not mine, but _damn_ I wish it was.

If anybody asked she would not be able to explain it. She would not be able to pinpoint the one aspect of him that made her love him… maybe it was because of his eyes. They were black. And not just a boring dull grey- black, or a deep, dark brown- black, like hers. No, they were plain, simple black- black. Some would call his eyes cold and unfeeling; because they seemed to simply absorb all the light that entered them. They wouldn't twinkle and they wouldn't shine. They would simply look. Not stare and not burn holes into you, as some do. They weren't calculating and they weren't observant, though he was both. They were simply just black.

It could maybe even be the way he walked. Correction; de didn't walk, he _moved_. It wasn't a glide either, or a saunter, or a stiff march. It was kind of in between. His back would be ramrod straight, his shoulders slightly slumped. His head held high, his expression unreadable. He took small strides, not large, swooping ones like many over- confident males she knew. His pace was slow, yet slightly hurried. Almost as if he needed to be somewhere, but did not know where exactly. His expression suited his carved facial features extremely well. It was not one of casual indifference, nor was it cold and stony. At some angles it seemed to be pensive and contemplative, but then, simply by a slight tilt of the head, it seemed to be arrogant and haughty. Another fraction of a turn, and it looked nonchalant and bored. His face was perfectly symmetrical, with dark, thin eyebrows and long eyelashes. He had thin lips, pale and colorless; lighter than his skin color. His skin itself was flawless, yet many would call it pasty and boring. It was not even slightly tanned, yet it didn't look unhealthy, as if it needed to see more of the sun. It seemed to radiate its own light, yet it did not glow.

She also felt that it could be his smile, or rather, its lack thereof. His mouth was always set in a straight line, and not a grim one, mind you. She had never seen him truly smile. Yes, the corners of his lips would slightly turn up for two seconds or so, but that was it. He never scowled or frowned and nothing ever seemed to surprise him.

And just like that, everything about him was capricious, elusive.

But he was open. Or at least he seemed to be. He wasn't like all the other moody, "loner" guys who would glare at you and tell you to mind your own business, nor was he one to stay quiet all the time. He was neither shy nor boisterous, neither friendly nor hostile.

He would talk to people, and tell them things about himself so that they thought he was close to them. But they were always things that didn't matter. She noticed that he would always remain tight- lipped when any talk went towards his family. He seemed to dislike people asking about his bloodline and what his parents did for a living. He would change the topic or turn the question around, or simply not answer, and that was what she figured to be his weakness, his soft spot; a button that others couldn't press because they didn't know where it was.

His voice, oh, she adored it. It was soft, yet steely, with a slight 'holier- than- thou' air about it. He was not loud, but somehow his voice would carry on so that everyone heard him. He was a smooth talker, he could flatter and charm, and somehow he had mastered the art of being evasive and cryptic, without drawing any suspicion. He was never sarcastic or blunt, and would choose his words cautiously. It would make her queasy at times, they way he would talk to people as if he was weighing them, probing them, trying to figure something out… but what, she didn't know.

All the Professors were extremely fond of him. He was exceptionally sharp; he got the best grades and, when asked a question, would always know the answer. But for some reason he never answered questions in class. In stead he would choose to let others answer, as if he wanted to test them and see if they knew. He was extremely curious, but chose to find out things by himself rather than ask others. She saw him in the library constantly, pouring over books and researching topics that they weren't even studying in class.

Nobody ever seemed to wonder about him. They had their set opinion of him and nothing could change it. Most of the boys in her year were either slightly jealous of him, due to his exceptional grades and even more exceptional looks, or they didn't give him a second's thought, dismissing him as "that pale bloke with all the cronies who's no good at Quidditch". A friend of hers felt that he was "a narcissistic snob with a stick up his arse", where as another girl she knew thought that he was actually "really decent and charming, a perfect gentleman". She did, however, know a fair amount of girls who thought he was extremely good- looking, but then she also knew many girls who thought of him as dodgy and untrustworthy, someone who gave them the creeps because he had a whole bunch of followers. And he was in Slytherin.

Yes, another thing about him that caught her attention. She knew many Slytherins, and they were all malicious and haughty, cruel to everyone except their own. This one bloke, Klaudius Black, was extremely formidable. Everyone, from the other Houses that is, feared him because he was known for his temper as well as for jinxing people on a daily basis without getting any punishment. And yet, Klaudius was not feared nor followed by his fellow Slytherins, _he_ was.

He had never once lost his temper in front of others, and his voice – his smooth, sharp voice, so thick with layers that you somehow found yourself hanging onto every word he spoke – was always leveled and controlled. But still, it was him who seemed to be the leader of the pack of Slytherins. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't as if wherever he would go, others would follow. No, it wasn't like that… atleast not all the time. In fact, he was seen alone, by himself a lot. But every time he went up to the Slytherins, or spoke to them, they would listen with rapt attention. Almost as if they were… scared of him. Or something of the sort.

But he wasn't scary. Or at least not in the conventional sense. He did not have a giant, towering build. He did not stomp around, glaring at people or growling. He did not even show off his hexing and cursing skills.

But as she sat and pondered, a vision flashed through her mind's eye, and, with growing unease, she felt that she might understand their fear.

It was the flash of red.

If she thought back to every time she had seen him duel in DADA class, or every time Professor Slughorn told them off a new potion, or even every time she saw him master a new spell in Charms or Transfiguration, she remembered his eyes. That hungry, manic glint that would take over and his eyes would flash red. Just for a second; long enough for her (who had spent six years relentlessly studying and scrutinizing him) alone to notice.

And it was that red that would cause her to look away.


	2. Chapter 2

Hey, ok... so I finally came around to writing a new chapter. I was kind of nervous about this because I originally intended the story to be a one-shot told from the POV of an OC. But now I sort or added a plot... and I'm scared that I might have ruined it. So PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE give me feedback!! Thanks.

**CHAPTER 2 **

Tom Marvolo Riddle was not in a good mood. He had just received a note from Professor Dippet asking him to see him in his office as soon as possible. Knowing the blubbering old fool, it was probably something extremely trivial; a menial task that needed to be done, such as overseeing the third- year's first ever trip to Hogsmeade, or, Merlin forbid, planning the upcoming Equinox Festival. Even though Tom knew that it was in his own favor to be a favorite amongst the Professors and the Headmaster himself, it was still quite galling when they would rely on him to do things originally meant for the Head boy or Head girl to do. Not to mention that he was simply _itching_ to go to the Library and do some research on the "Chamber Of Secrets" he had come across whilst reading "Hogwarts: A History".

Tom strode through the Charms Corridor, his mind irate. On the surface, however, he looked completely composed and even a little curious, by the time he reached the Gargoyle statues outside the Headmaster's office. He said the password, and as soon as he entered the circular room, noted that the Headmaster was not alone; Dumbledore was there as well.

"You called for me, Headmaster." Tom said politely, keeping his voice neutral. He turned his head and nodded lightly to Dumbledore, who he observed looked weary.

"Ah, yes. Tom." Dippet coughed, as he turned to the 6th year in front of him. Tom noticed that he looked nervous and more than a little upset, "Have a seat, son."

More than a little curious, Tom took the seat next to Dumbledore, in front of the Headmaster's desk. He kept his hands folded in his lap, and his eyes travelled to a piece of parchment in Armandov's hands.

"Tom, we just a received a letter from your home." On Tom's blank expression, he added, "Your orphanage."

Tom had to fight back the instant disgust that threatened to spill onto his face, and instead frowned as his annoyance grew.

"I'm afraid it is bad news."

He hoped the "bad news" was that the Godforsaken place had been burnt to the ground, or something to that effect.

Dippet took in a deep breath and blew the air out through nose, his nostrils flaring, "It is regarding a friend of yours, a girl named Leslie Pitherford. She and the other children were out on a field trip to a park near a lake. The matrons are not sure exactly how it happened, but she, err… fell into the lake, and drowned." The aging man looked away from Tom, his eyes holding more emotion that Tom had ever felt in his entire life.

_Leslie Pitherford._

Tom's mind instantly flew to a small, skinny blonde girl, only a year younger than him, with the blackest eyes he had ever seen. He remembered how much that hag Mrs. Cole had hated her, how she used to hit and scream at her, causing all the other children to cower. He also remembered never seeing her cry. She would just sit there, a petite, frail little girl with a gaunt face and thin, colorless lips, and stare at the raging woman looming above her. He never understood how she did it. Whenever he was yelled at, he would see red. His fingers would curl into tight fists, his jaw would clench, and all he would want to do is throttle that red faced bitch.

But Leslie would just sit there and take it. As would all the other weak- minded, pathetic children. He had never seen anyone stand up to Mrs. Cole. They would actually _liste_nto her, they would do what she told them. He had been the only one to talk back to her, to make sure she knew that she didn't own him. That he could not _be _owned.

Maybe that was why he resented Muggles. They knew so little and they did not want to know more. They handed over the reins of their wretched existences to those who demanded respect, even if they didn't deserve it. And they were all the same. They would cry when yelled at, they would shrink back when hit. They would simply just give in.

Except Leslie. She would never cry or shrink back. Just sit and stare.

He remembered the first time she talked to him. It had been right after that idiot Billy's rabbit had been found dead. She had approached him and bluntly asked if he had killed Billy Stubble's rabbit.

He had glared and shut the door in her face.

The second time she had talked to him was to tell him that he was bleeding and that she had a bandage if he wanted one. He had just gotten a thrashing from Mrs. Cole because Amy and Dennis had run to her, crying and screaming, telling her that Tom Riddle had stolen their souls and given it to the dead.

He had snarled at Leslie then, pushed her against the wall and demanded to know why she should think that Tom Riddle needed her help. And as she choked in his death grip, her eyes had remained empty and devoid of the fear he _yearned_ to see in them. She was not afraid, and his bitter mind wanted to know why. Because even at the tender age of nine he knew that he could see into the souls of people, and Leslie had no soul.

He had released her then, and she had left. Though there were bruises on her neck for the next week or so, she had never ratted him out to the matron. Instead she had come to him _again_, only this time she had sat on the floor next to his bed, and told him about how one day her parents would come and take her away from the Orphanage to a faraway place where she would rule. She had told him that that was why she never talked back to Mrs. Cole, because she knew that on that day, when she had all the power and all the control, she would make her suffer.

The only thing that had kept Tom from sneering at her was that he had the same fantasy.

And so it had become a regular occurrence. She would come to him every night and tell him about the Kingdom she would one day rule. He would never speak a word, but in the depths of his soundless mind, his own fantasy would grow. They had reached a mutual accord that did not signify friendship or anything of the sort. They were just two people with similar dreams. And it had stayed that way.

Until the night when Dumbledore had come to him. Ever since that day, Tom never spoke a word to Leslie, and avoided her at all costs. Because his dream was coming true, and she was still stuck in the wasteland of what would never be.

The last time he had seen her was a few months ago, the night before he was to leave for King's Cross. He had been sitting on his bed, his wand lying in front of him, his mind a hailstorm of thoughts and ideas. She had knocked on his door and entered, without his consent. He hadn't even looked up as she came and sat on the floor next to his bed. Her pale, sallow skin wore bruises, and though she was fifteen, she had not lost her skeletal look. She had sat there for a while, and then, to his disgust, and not to mention shock, had started crying.

He never said a word. He hadn't even hidden his wand. She had then whispered to him, "It's not fair, Tom. You don't even deserve it."

It was only then that he had looked up at her. Her black, lightless eyes, swimming with tears, had held nothing. They hadn't been accusing or spiteful or even sad. She had then gotten up and exited the room. Alone once again, he had laughed. He was sure that she hadn't known of his magical abilities, but she wasn't stupid. She had known that he was happy, that he was getting what he wanted, while she rotted in this Hell-hole of sanctuary.

And now she was dead and the urge to laugh overtook him once more. He heard a cough, and, with a jolt, realized that he was still sitting in Professor Dippet's office. The old man wore a look of extreme sympathy on his face, as he regarded Tom, and Tom wanted nothing more than to wipe that expression of his face.

"It is always hard to let go of those who it seems have left us." Dumbledore's soft voice spoke from beside him, and he could feel the electric blue eyes boring into the side of his face, "But just remember, Tom, nobody is asking you to let go."

Tom shut off his mind, and without looking at the Charms Professor, stood up, nodded to the Headmaster, and said, "I must get to class, Headmaster, but thank you for informing me of…" he waved a hand towards the letter, "this unfortunate incident."

"Tom, you can take some time off from studying, if you want." Dippet said earnestly, "Your teachers would understand."

"It's alright, sir. Failing school will not make Leslie come back." Tom said, making sure that his voice quivered a little. After all, he needed to look as if he was distraught. Dippet seemed convinced, and he gave Tom a note that explained his tardiness to the Potions Professor, whose class he had next. But Dumbledore's scrutinizing look was extremely unsettling, and so Tom gave a half-hearted smile and left.

Fools, the whole lot of them.

Did they actually think he cared that a stupid Muggle girl had just died? Tom knew that emotionally, there was something different about him than the rest of the people around him. It wasn't that he didn't let things get to him… there just wasn't anything that _could_ get to him. He knew what others thought of him. They called him "emotionally numb" and "closed off". Tom couldn't care less.

He thought of a certain word Dippet had used… "friend".

Ha. As if that Muggle had been his _friend_. As if he anyone was his friend. Who needed friends when you had followers? A friend was your equal, someone you confided in, someone you respected. Tom had no use for such people.

He entered the Dungeon and handed over the note to Slughorn, and then took a seat at the back of the class. Black leaned over and whispered, "What did the Head want this time?"

Tom shrugged his shoulders, and Black nodded his understanding. If Riddle didn't want to share, no one was going to make him.

As Tom turned to the blackboard to see what Potion they were concocting today, he caught the eyes of a black- haired Gryffindor. After realizing that he had seen her staring at him, she blushed and hastily looked down at her cauldron.

Tom mentally sneered at the Mudblood, and then promptly forgot that she existed.


End file.
